


The Soul Drinker

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-18
Updated: 2009-06-18
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15791919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: A rogue group of would-be do-gooders is out to steal Angel's soul. Somehow this turns into a Spike & Gunn buddy-picture.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the "Plot Without Porn" ficathon.
> 
> It's totallies PG-13, except, as usual, for Spike's language.

“And then Charlie boy here, he walks right up to her…”

“Okay, first off, it was dark, and secondly, Spike is leaving out the part where he bet me a round of shots I wouldn’t.”

“Are you going to let me tell this story?” Spike shifted his axe to the other shoulder so he could drape his arm around Gunn. “So he toddles drunkenly across the dance floor and that’s when we all notice the tart’s a good head taller than him, and Charlie…”

Angel, who was leading the way down a long alley, spun on his heel to face them. “We are hunting vampires. Right now. In case you both forgot.”

Spike rolled his eyes extravagantly. “Lighten up, Peaches. Charlie’s heart is loud enough to warn them we’re coming.”

“Oh, and your big, overcompensating boots aren’t?” Gunn straightened to his full height, head tilted back to peer down exaggeratedly at Spike. “Come to think of it, weren’t you about two inches shorter before you put them on?”

“That’s low!” Spike poked Charles in the ribs, but Gunn just danced out of his reach, laughing.

“You’d know!”

Angel stopped walking. One night on the town together, and Spike had made Gunn as obnoxious as he was. He heaved a heavy sigh. “This area’s dead. Let’s head back toward…”

“The vampire with a soul shall never serve evil!”

All three turned with confused expressions at the black-cloaked figure that dove at Angel from a corner fire escape, a wicked curved dagger brandished high.

Angel deftly stepped aside just as the dagger would have plunged into his chest. “I’m not working for evil! Why does everyone think that?”

Spike and Gunn moved instinctively to have their backs to each other as black-cloaked figures rushed into the alleyway. “Vamps?” Gunn asked.

Spike shook his head. “Heartbeats.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Hell of a lot more fun when you can actually kill people.” Spike grimaced as he dodged a kick and pushed an adversary away.

The cloaked humans were un-armed, oddly enough, and just kept coming at Gunn and Spike, doggedly and with grim faces, grappling for their arms or legs. Gunn was the first to realize the pattern. “They’re keeping us from Angel,” he said.

The only armed assailant continued to attack Angel, swinging his large curved dagger wildly while Angel deflected attacks, looking annoyed, but still being backed toward a dumpster. Gunn could tell he’d be cornered then, and perhaps lose the upper hand. He ducked under a kick and rolled along the gritty pavement, coming up between Angel and his assailant. He punched the man in the face.

Rather than hit back, the dagger-wielder checked his strike, windmilling his arms comically as he stared at Gunn with open horror.

Gunn stepped toward him and said, “Boo!”

He dropped his knife, then scrambled to pick it up, and nearly grasping it by the blade-end, shied away from it like it was hot.

The cloaked figures scattered, one coming up and carefully taking the dagger by its handle before running off. The original wielder crawled and then staggered to his feet and followed.

“Well,” Spike said. “That wasn’t strange. Should we follow them?”

Angel shook his head, though he was frowning in the direction they’d run.

Gunn shook his jacket out. “Who the hell were they?”

“Just another suburbanite afraid to meet a black man in an alley?” Spike offered.

Gunn froze, eyebrows raised. “Are you serious, blondie?”

“What? ‘S funny. Wanker wouldn’t know you’re scarier in a suit.”

A strange look crossed Gunn’s face, but he shrugged it off. “Yeah,” he said, and pulled his stake back out of his waist-band, where he’d stashed it as soon as he realized they faced humans.

“Let’s get back,” Angel said. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Oh there’s a surprise.”

“Seriously, man, you do need to lighten up.” Gunn patted Angel on the shoulder, and they turned back toward the way they’d come.

***

“Do you remember anything else about them?” Wesley sat back in his chair, fingertips pressed to his lips in thought.

Angel shook his head, and then frowned thoughtfully. “They smelled normal. No incense or cloying oil like most cultists.”

“Are we about done here?” Spike asked from his post leaning against the wall. “Some of us have a sunshine allergy and a commute.”

Wesley shot Spike an annoyed glance, but straightened. “Well, it could be just another splinter of the vampire worshiping sects, and not worth our…”

“Wait, guys! This is it.” Gunn jumped up from the couch, a large tome in his hands. He hurried to pass it to Wes. “That’s the knife.”

“Are you sure?”

“It was waved in my face enough times, yeah.”

“I suspected it might be in Goodwin’s Mystical Armaments,” Wesley said, smugly, turning the book to regard the picture. His smile faded quickly. “This isn’t good.”

“The Soul-Drinker,” Spike peered at the title and smirked. “So? Not impressed. They weren’t going to call it ‘The Daisy Trimmer.’”

Wesley looked up with grave seriousness. “Spike, this blade, quite literally, steals the soul of whomever it cuts.”

Spike winced away from the picture.

“They were after Angel’s soul,” Gunn said.

“So it would appear.”

“Then why didn’t they try to cut me?” Gunn frowned. “I stepped in the way and they broke off the attack.”

“Well, it might be they didn’t wish to kill you. The effects of soul-loss on humans is immediate death.”

“Yeah, but if they pulled Peaches’ soul out of him, a lot more people would have died.”

“That may be so, but I’m not convinced they meant ill.” Wesley pointed at Angel, “You said they shouted something about the vampire with a soul serving evil?”

“You think they were trying to take me out in the name of the Powers That Be?”

“I think they might have been acting on the sanshu prophecy.” When three pairs of confused eyes stared at Wesley, he pursed his lips. “Not the ‘sanshu’ part of it. I’m talking about the Scroll of Aberjian - and how it says the vampire with a soul will play a crucial part in the apocalypse, for good or ill.”

“Take the soul away, take away the chance of ‘or ill’,” Gunn said.

“I don’t serve evil!” Angel said, with the air of one tired of repeating himself.

Spike raised his hand. “Can I point out that that’s complete bollocks because there are two vampires with souls now?”

Wes shrugged. “They probably haven’t heard of your soul, Spike.”

Spike shoved his hands in his pockets. “Bloody hell. I’ve got to get a publicist.”

“There are more things at stake than your popularity,” Wesley replied dryly. “If my theory is correct, and they believe the fate of the universe is in question, they will attack again.”

“So Peaches stays in the bat cave.” Spike shrugged. “And those of us who don’t have more rep than pep will go find these boys and straighten them out.”

Angel started to object, but Wesley interrupted. “As much as it pains me to say it, Spike is right. That’s our most logical course of action.”

Angel’s face was sorrowfully petulant. “You’re saying I have to stay in the office?”

“In your suite, preferably. We don’t want to risk the release of Angelus.”

Spike smirked. “Later. Think I’ll go for a nice stroll. Enjoy being grounded, grandpa!”

Gunn followed him out of the meeting room. “Do you have to bait him like that all the time?”

“Someone has to.” Spike winked. “Besides, they’re so cute at that age, aren’t they?”

Gunn’s somber face cracked into a warm smile. “Yeah. Angel’s gotta be like a hundred, and he looked about four when Wes told him he was grounded!”

“I’m ‘like a hundred’. Angel’s ‘like’ two-fifty.”

“That much worse, right?”

“I’m not going to argue that,” Spike smiled, and clapped Gunn on the shoulder. “Drink?”

Gunn squinted. “It’s four in the morning.”

“And?”

“Sunshine allergy? Commute?”

Spike shrugged. “Bar’s on the way.”

Gunn sighed. “Think I’ll just go to bed, man. I have a client meeting tomorrow morning.”

“You need a drink, Charlie.”

“No, I need to be alert when I discuss legal issues with demons.”

Spike leaned against the corridor wall, blocking Gunn’s escape route. “Doesn’t it give you a thought, that these blokes attacking us want to save the world? Doesn’t that say something about what we’re doing here?”

Gunn shook his head. “Everyone’s the hero of their own story, man.”

“Then maybe you want to tell me how it feels to be the gentrified, suit-wearing arse you used to despise?” Spike smiled at the shocked expression on his friend’s face. “Come on, I’m not brood-boy back there; I can notice something that doesn’t involve myself. You hate that suit, couldn’t wait to go out in sweats tonight, but then you missed it, the way people respond to the suit, see you as a different sort of man in it. Come on, I’ll buy you a pint and you can try to disprove my case, counselor.”

Gunn managed to regain some of his composure and smile. “You are so full of bull.”

“Yeah, funny story…” Spike trailed off with a smirk and turned to lead the way down the corridor.

***

“You’re shitting me.”

“Alas, no.”

“Poetry?” Gunn snickered, then, covering his mouth with a fist, he shook his head, caught a breath, and momentarily appeared calm. “Uh… I’m sure it was very cool, dark, avant-garde…”

“Will you just take the embarrassing past as a given and stop asking for details?” Spike tossed back his drink. “Pathetic. Heroic couplets. ‘Thy beauty is like the dawn’ bollocks.”

Gunn shook his head, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I just don’t see it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the point. Reinvention of the self.” He shrugged.

“It’s not the same.”

“No one’s bloody the same. I’m just saying… know how it feels, to wonder if they notice the strings holding on the mask.”

Gunn smirked. “But unlike you, I’ve always been cool.”

Vampire-quick, Spike had his elbows on the table, his brows drawn low. “And if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll come up with novel uses for all your internal organs.”

Gunn snorted, not looking nearly intimidated enough. (Or, actually, at all.) Spike sighed and fell back in his chair, picking up his now-empty glass and frowning at it as though confused where the liquid had gone. “I’m serious. Guts for garters.”

“Sure man.” Gunn snickered. After a long drink from his beer, his expression sobered. “But no offense, your identity crisis, member of the evil undead and all, is lame.”

“Bugger off.”

“What’s at stake, besides your own opinion of yourself,? It’s narcissistic. I’m talking about people, good people I knew and watched die, who the rest of the world dismisses as dumb-ass thugs, and having the opportunity to show the world… I dunno, something. And I’m not doing it. People see me in my suit, and that’s all they see. Like I was born in it. And this reinvention? I didn’t earn it. They zapped it into me, so I could serve their purposes. They bought me, man. Bought me with a fake law degree.”

Spike blinked. “Well,” he said. “No, you win.”

“Come on. Don’t just blow this off. It’s a serious… thing.”

Spike shrugged. “No one, in this culture, is going to use me as a representative of my race. Thank fuck. Unless it’s vampires, in general, but those tossers deserve a negative image.”

“Man, you really do have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Spike grimaced. “I grew up in a time and place where a bunch of lily-white people, who were all basically the same, got their noses bent out of shape over the precious difference between upper-upper and upper-middle middle-class.”

Gunn smiled. “So, in conclusion: I’m right, you have no idea what I’m going through.”

“I said ‘you win’. Bloody lawyers.” Spike raised his empty glass and waggled it at a waitress. “But there’s always been that feeling, like everyone knows I’m a big upper-class faker, even though I’ve now spent much more time living…” Spike’s expression froze, his eyes fixed on a figure at the bar.

Gunn’s smile waned. “What?’

“The green jacket, over there by the quiz machine.”

“What? That guy? He doesn’t look familiar.”

“Smells familiar.”

“You vamps and your noses.” Gunn adjusted his collar. “Can make a man anxious about his deodorant.”

“Yeah, go easy on the old spice, will you? My nostrils are bleeding.” Spike slipped out of the booth, not taking his eyes off the rather ordinary-looking guy in the green windbreaker. He had that dark tan “ethnically indistinct” look of a movie extra, his dark hair salt-and-pepper speckled and cut so close you couldn’t tell if it was kinky or straight.

Gunn stood, unsure whether to follow Spike, stop him, or provide backup, so he just hung back, watching Spike close in on the guy, who jumped about a foot off his bar stool when the vampire clamped a hand down on his shoulder and in a voice like water dripping off ice, whispered, “Hello, mate. Want to ask you a few questions about a mutual friend of ours.”

The man stumbled back, over the adjacent barstool, waving his hands helplessly to ward off the vampire. “Vampire… soul…” he gasped, as though reminding himself, “We’re on the same side!”

Spike grinned wolfishly. “You recognize me! That saves time.” His eyes flashed yellow, and there was the familiar sound of bones shifting.

The guy bolted for the door, leaving Spike with a green windbreaker in hand.

“Well, that was…”

Spike cut Gunn off with, “Come on, Charlie!” and tossed the windbreaker at him, walking leisurely to the door.

Gunn frowned as Spike stopped on the sidewalk, eyes closed, face tilted up into the streetlight. “You’re letting him get away.”

“Step back,” Spike said.

“What? Seriously, it’s not like you’re going to turn into a bat or something.”

Spike turned to him with one eyebrow raised. “The jacket. I’m trying to follow his scent. Step back.”

“Oh.”

Gunn balled the offensive thing in his fists, feeling like he was holding a purse outside the ladies’ room. Spike raised his nose to the air again, breathing slow and steady, and then, with a wink and smirk, started down the street.

They jogged across an intersection and ducked down an alleyway. Gunn felt for his stake and pocket knife, eyes instinctively seeking out the darkest corners, the likely ambush locations.

Spike stopped in front of a wooden door. “Well, well. The rat wasn’t too far from his bolt-hole, was he?”

Gunn stepped up to the side of the door, shoulder to the wall. “On three?”

Spike stared at him, plainly gobsmacked.

“What?” Gunn asked.

“You aren’t going to talk me out of this, tell me we should get Angel or ask his permission or some bollocks?”

Gunn squinted. “Why would I?”

A beat passed, and then a grin broke out on Spike’s face. “Right. On three.”

Gun held up three fingers, than two, and when he dropped his third finger, Spike kicked the door in and they entered, immediately moving back-to-back.

They needn’t have been so careful about their entrance. The room was filled with men and women – thirty or forty of them, all ranged facing the door, in an arc, weapons drawn. Some wore brown robes like their attackers in the alleyway, though most just had them tossed on, open to expose t-shirts and dresses. An ominous creak led their eyes upward, where two young men with crossbows knelt on a catwalk, bolts pointed dead center at Spike’s chest.

Sighing, Spike raised his hands.

Hollowly, Gunn asked, “Hey, Spike? How about we go for backup?”

The line of warriors parted slightly and a distinguished gentleman stepped forward. His neatly-trimmed beard had just a touch of brown mingled in the grey and his robe was firmly fastened and tied with a rough hemp belt.

He raised his hands, and there was a portentous silence. “I hope, dear friends, that you can pay for that damage to our door.”

Spike tilted his head. “I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you lot a chance to surrender.”

“This violent conflict is pointless. Are you not the William the Bloody who closed the California Hellmouth?”

“I’ll tell you what’s pointless: unleashing Angelus.”

Gunn nodded, and stepped cautiously forward. “Just give us the dagger, and no one gets hurt.”

“And you!” The spokesman pointed. “Charles Gunn. Well is your tale known to The Order of Light.”

“Well am I known?” Gunn scowled at them. “I doubt that.”

“You fought for the light against darkness, many years. Your fame has spread to all the tri-county area.”

“Man, who are you guys? We fight evil.” He gestured between Spike and himself. “Me and him. I don’t know what the hell you do, but don’t tell us we’re on the same side. You tried to steal a man’s soul. That’s evil.”

“Only to prevent an even greater evil!” He spread his arms wide, pleading, “The vampire with a soul must not serve the Wolf, Ram and Hart, come the apocalypse!”

“Oi! Vampire with a soul, right here.”

“We have no fear for you, William the Bloody. You have yet avoided the temptation of working for the enemy.”

“And some people think I’m not that smart.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Look, Obi-Wan, Angel may be an idiot, but you’re even thicker if you think he’s at Wolfram and Hart just to throw them a ‘happy apocalypse’ party. ‘Attack from within’ isn’t a new concept, you self-righteous pea-brains.”

Gunn silently observed that as long as he hung out with vampires, he was always going to be relegated to “good cop” duty. “Look, we’re sorry about your door, and it’s obvious we aren’t going to reach a consensus standing here with weapons drawn. If you could just sit down with us a moment…”

The spokesman, who, now Gunn thought about it, did look a bit like Alec Guinness, shook his head and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his voluminous robe. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken if you think we can be swayed from our just cause. Take them away. They’ll serve well as prisoners to draw the one we seek.”

All around them, the rag-tag army advanced.

“Great lawyering, Charlie,” Spike muttered, moving to a defensive stance as a woman with a sword stepped between them and the door.

“Like you were helping.” Back-to-back again, they were being herded further into the room.

Suddenly Spike froze, and pointed across the warehouse. “There! It… go get it!”

Gunn had enough time to turn in confusion and Spike was barreling through the cultists, screaming and waving his arms in as much of a distraction as anyone could possibly make. And not in the direction he had pointed. Crossbows started twanging, bolts flying through the air and skittering on brick. Gunn belatedly turned in the direction Spike had pointed.

A woman stood just inside a doorway, holding the soul-drinker dagger close to her chest, presumably having been left with the task of guarding it but unable to resist the temptation to see what was going on.

“‘Go get it!’ The vampire says!” Gunn ducked under the arms of a cultist grabbing for him and ran for the girl with the dagger.

It was chaos in the warehouse; Spike was doing a good job of freaking out as many people as possible. Gunn was very, very aware of his own non-supernatural body and its vulnerability to everything, but fortunately, the cultists had been expecting them to break for the door, not run deeper into the building.

Ahead of him, the lady with the dagger ducked out of sight, a wooden door shutting behind her. Fortunately, she seemed to be the only one aware that Gunn was running for her. He was tackled. He squirmed and kicked under the weight of two people holding him down, and was just thinking, “Well, there went that plan,” when the weight was lifted off of him and strong hands were helping him up, propelling him forward.

Spike had a crossbow bolt through his shoulder and a huge grin on his face. Gunn got to his feet just in front of the wooden door. He kicked as close to the door-knob as he could and it gave easily.

The girl – she really wasn’t much more than a girl – backed up, the dagger in front of her. The room was an office strewn with papers and maps on the walls. Gunn held his hands up. “Easy there, I’m not going to hurt you. Just give me the…”

The girl screamed and lunged at him.

“Charlie!” Spike cried.

And then Gunn wasn’t quite sure what happened, just that he was knocked aside and looked up from his position against the wall to see Spike stagger back, the dagger embedded in his sternum halfway to the hilt. The girl jumped back, hands up and twitching like she wasn’t sure if she should pluck it out or just run.

The dagger flashed with white light. Spike looked down at his chest as though just noticing it. “Oh,” he said. “Bollocks.”

Gunn turned on his heel and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's part 2!

Spike stared down at his chest. He felt very strange – hollow, bloodless – but that might have been psychosomatic. He grasped the end of the dagger and yanked it out of his chest. It went with a wet, sucking sound, and blood ran over his hand. No wonder he felt dizzy.

“Kill the soulless beast! Destroy it!”

Oh, right.

He staggered forward unsteadily, the dagger waving in front of him, and people parted like the red sea, horrified at the thought of the instant death that would await them with a nick of the dagger.

Something wooden and hard drove into Spike’s chest, slantwise from right pectoral and out below the left shoulder blade. And then another arrow hit him, still off-target, but close. His lungs halted in attempts to breathe, unable to move against the pain, and his muscles twitched, random fires that only added to the agony.

He lowered his head and ran after Charlie, but the scattered forces were recovering, closing in between him and the door. He swung the blade, ducked his head, and ran for it.

In the alleyway, the sky was watery with pre-dawn light. He ran blind, just trying to put distance between himself and the cultists, until the sun was up in earnest and his skin smoked even in the shade. He jumped into a dumpster and slammed the lid. It was mostly empty – just a few soiled napkins and bits of plastic bag in the corners. It smelled overwhelmingly of stale beer. But he was safe for the moment. He let himself sink to the floor and stared at the dagger in his hand. It was a pretty thing, all opalescent and glittering. He took it in a firm grip, set his jaw, and plunged it back into his chest about where it had been before.

He let out a choked cry of pain, stared at the handle, sticking out of him and glinting only in that ordinary way gems and silver glinted. With a disappointed grunt he pulled it out again.

***

Gunn woke up the next morning feeling hung-over. He’d collapsed into bed fully-clothed, unwashed, and sweaty. He wiped his hand over his face, felt the stubble and thought about shaving and about what he had to tell the others.

Shit. He jumped out of bed. How could he have failed to call the office? They had to know! He fumbled in his discarded jacket for his cell phone, quickly hitting speed dial for the main office.

“Mr. Angel’s Office,” Harmony’s voice chirped.

Gunn hung up. No, Harmony was not the one to warn. His hands were shaking. He felt way out of his depth. He took a calming breath and punched the second number on his speed dial.

“Wyndham-Pryce.”

“Wes, it’s me. Something happened last night.”

“You went out after the cultists,” Wes said, with weary certainty.

“No! Er, maybe. Yes. Look, the point is: Spike has no soul!”

A pause. “I see.”

“Yeah.” Gunn ran a hand over his head.

“Where are you? More importantly, where is he?”

“I’m at home. I… I don’t know if Spike even made it. I saw him get stabbed with the soul-drinker and I got the hell out of there. Just… let everyone know, okay? I gotta take a shower and change. Be in in about half an hour?”

“Yes. Charles? Be careful. You and Spike were becoming somewhat close, and vampires…”

“Attack their friends first. Yeah, man. I know.”

Gunn thumbed the phone off and let it fall on the bedspread. He just sat there a moment, not sure what to think.

He partially hoped Spike hadn’t made it out of the cultists’ lair. And that made him feel like a coward and a betrayer.

He rubbed his eyes again and looked at the picture of his sister by his bedside. Just a wallet-sized shot, all he’d had, crumpled on the edges, but now nicely framed with a wide grey matt. “Sorry, Alonna.” He picked up the frame and kissed the cool glass. Then he could get up and take his shower, and face the day.

***

“… and I just lit out of there. I didn’t look back. Can’t tell what happened after that, but the cultists, they let me go.” Gunn shrugged. He looked at Angel somewhat nervously. There was no expression readable on his face. Gunn knew, despite all the back and forth snarking, that Angel and Spike had a kind of thing going, sibling-like. But Angel looked… okay with this.

He just nodded against his pressed fingers. “Wes, can you follow up? See if you can get a team to that address. If they haven’t fled, we might still be able to talk to them.”

Wesley nodded, making a note on his legal pad. “Just one suggestion, Angel? Perhaps from here on out we should utilize as many soulless members of the staff in this project as possible?”

Angel glanced quickly at the window to his office, then back at Wes with a frown, “How many of those do we have?”

“A few. The Tarkalak demon in Human Resources would be immune to the dagger’s affect, for example. I’m not sure how you feel about sending Harmony out on field cases, but at least we would be sure…”

“Is that such a good idea?” Fred asked. She stood against the back wall of Angel’s office, a file folder clutched to her chest protectively. “Putting this whole mission in, well, hands without conscience?”

“These are all people who have passed our background checks. We kept them on with the assumption we could trust them.”

“Look,” Angel stood. “We just have to keep people from getting cut. This dagger has to be captured.”

There was a clatter in the lobby, and the door burst open to reveal Spike, fanning out his smoking coat. “I have got to find a better way to get here in the daytime,” he muttered. He looked up, to see Fred scooting behind Wesley, and the whole room staring at him. “Oh,” he said, with mock cheer, “So you’ve heard.”

Fred made a small, distressed noise. Gunn stepped closer to the desk, meaning to call security. Spike rolled his eyes and turned to face Angel. He pulled something out of his duster. Everyone flinched. Spike tossed it on the desk.

An ornate handle stuck out of two pieces of cardboard, thoroughly duct-taped around the business end of the dagger. “There’s your bloody dagger. And seeing as how that hit was meant for you, Peaches, you owe me. Fix it.”

“Fix it?” Angel asked, looking at the dagger as though expecting it to be damaged.

“I want it back.” Spike’s voice broke a little.

“You want it back?” Angel looked a little horrified.

Wesley was inching close to the desk, eyes darting from the dagger to Spike with intense interest. Fred was trying to make sure Gunn and Wesley were between her and the vampires. Gunn wasn’t sure what to do, or whose reaction freaked him out the most.

Spike was shaking with anger. “It’s mine and I want it back. Do you have any idea what I went through to get it?”

Wesley finally managed to get himself between the vampires, his hand quickly closing on the dagger hilt. “Let’s take this to the lab and see what we can learn from it.”

“Yeah,” said Spike, relaxing a little. “Do that research thing, Percy. You and Fred figure it out.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow as Spike started to follow him. “We can do that better without you hanging over our shoulders.”

“Oh. Right.” Spike held up his hands, backing off. He ended up next to Gunn, who took a step away from him. Spike’s expression soured. “Nice bit of leaving me behind you did last night,” he said.

“Uh…” Gunn couldn’t form a response. He just walked out of the room. It wasn’t running, but it felt like it. At least he wasn’t alone. Fred was practically glued to Wesley’s side as they made brisk time toward the labs.

Leaning back in his chair, Angel squinted at Spike and repeated, “You want it back?”

“Is there an echo in here?”

Angel stood, some decision shutting down the confusion on his face. “If this is some kind of trick…”

“Oh, of course. Because as nefarious plans go, walking into your office and handing over a valuable magical artifact is up there.”

Angel circled his desk, never taking his eyes off Spike, as though he could keep him pinned with a glare. He searched his face.

Self-conscious, Spike broke eye contact first. “I’m not you, you berk. Let’s just get this thing fixed fast, all right?”

Angel backed off a step, uncertain again. “How… what do you feel?”

“Like someone ripped something out of me.” Spike wrapped his duster tighter around himself and barked a short, humorless laugh. “I dunno. ‘S not like the first time.”

“Wait. You lost your soul before?”

Spike gave Angel his very best “you are dense” smirk. “When I died.”

“Oh.” Angel squinted at him. “I don’t really remember. I mean, I remember, but not the soul leaving. Not that time.”

“Dying is a bit preoccupying, yeah. But I always thought that sense of freedom was the soul leaving.” He gestured vaguely in front of his chest. “Now I guess that was just realizing you didn’t have to go in to work ever again. Or, you know, serve jury duty.” He shrugged.

“I’ve lost my soul twice, since I had it back. You can’t bullshit me on this.”

“And why would I? Christ you are full of yourself. This is me, Angelus. I know who I am, even if a part is missing.” He rubbed the center of his chest with the flat of his hand, as though feeling its absence.

“Are you killing?”

Spike frowned, offended. “If I didn’t get the pillock who stabbed me, why would I kill someone else?” The leather of his duster creaked as he drew it tighter. “Know I’d be able to do it. No remorse. I know that. But I also know what it feels like when the check comes due, so no thanks. They took my soul, not my brain.” He looked pointedly at Angel.

“You’re not to leave this office. I’m going personally to check out every death reported in LA last night. Harmony will have called security by now.”

“She doesn’t have a soul, you know.”

It was Angel’s turn to smirk. “And right now I trust her more than you.”

They both heard the security team arrive, saw their shadows dance along the misted glass separating Angel’s office from the reception area. Angel nodded, once, and turned to leave.

“Yeah, go, you big nancy. Tired of you looking at me like you can see the hole it left.”

Spike paced the office, filled with the energy of impotent rage. He tried to figure out the controls to Angel's television, but they were locked somehow, and he was so frustrated he accidentally broke the remote in half. Throwing it across the room at least gave him a momentary satisfaction.

He sank back in the leather chair behind the desk and watched the guards shadows on the wall, forced to wait and trust Angel's team with the recovery of his very soul.

This was an even dumber idea than the dumpster.

***

An hour or so later, Spike was escorted to the lab by guards armed with wooden stake-tipped night sticks. He watched the pulse flutter at the neck of the guard in front of him and imagined ripping his throat out. Like touching a bruise, he was testing the wound in his morality, feeling for where the reaction should have been that killing is wrong. He didn’t rightly remember why it was wrong, or how much wrong, but he did remember that it was.

He smiled at Fred, who did not look happy to see him. She ignored his wave and looked down at her clipboard, flipping a page to check what was written underneath. The dagger in question was in a clear plastic box in the center of the table.

Wesley stood over it, his hands planted on either side of the box. “What we’ve learned so far is that the dagger actually absorbs the souls, using them as a power source. Hence: Soul-drinker.”

“So we were thinking,” Fred said, glancing anxiously at Spike, and then at Angel, “perhaps a second strike would reverse the process?”

“No,” Spike said, with a mirthless smile, “That would be a soul-vomitter.”

“But it would be worth trying,” Wesley said, “If you really do want your soul back.”

Spike crossed his arms, head back. “Yeah, it would, and yeah, I do. Already tried that.” He shifted, glancing at all of them. “First bloody thing I tried.”

Angel was a very palpable presence at his back. “So you wouldn’t mind if we tried again.”

“Fred,” Spike said. “She can do it. Don’t trust you any further than I can throw you.”

Fred looked at the dagger, and then at Spike. She shook her head. “No.”

Spike’s face melted. “Fred?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” She took a step back, her clipboard in front of her like a shield.

Spike turned on his heel. “What did you do to her, Angelus?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“For bloody once it is. Fred’s looking at me like I’m going to jump her and gee, from what sadistic prick could she have gotten that idea?”

“I’ll be happy to stab you,” Wesley interrupted, rather loudly.

Spike sneered. “Oh look at him. You’re having a research-gasm, aren’t you? Can’t wait to measure the weight and density of a soul.”

Wesley’s steely gaze never wavered. “I am curious at the behavioral differences between former soulled vampires.”

Angel had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Spike, just let Wes stab you already and if it doesn’t work, we’ll move on to the next thing.”

“No,” Spike said, arms still crossed stubbornly. He glanced around the room. “Where’s Charlie?”

Wesley sighed as though dealing with a disagreeable child. “And will you let Charles stab you?”

“Fine. Yeah.” Spike shrugged and seemed to sink into himself.

Angel nudged his head at one of the guards, who left to fetch Gunn.

Spike approached the table, staring at the dagger. “So my soul is in there?” He looked to Fred for an answer. She nodded vigorously. “It’s not… I mean, it’s not using it up or something, is it? Like a battery? I’m not going to get back half a soul, am I?”

“At this point, we can’t be sure you can get it back,” Wes said.

Spike’s face quivered with anger. “I’m getting it back.”

Gunn followed a guard into the room. “What’s up?” he asked, affecting just a little casual calm.

“We want to see if stabbing Spike with the dagger a second time will reverse the affect,” Wesley said.

Angel reached for Spike, causing him to twist and step away. “Hey! Hands off, cavebrow!”

“Someone should hold you,” Angel said, teeth clenched, “to make sure you don’t strike back.”

“Yeah. And that someone should have their soul nice and firmly attached. Not you.” Spike shrugged out of his duster. “Anyway I’m not going to fight back. It’s so nice being trusted.” He pulled his shirt off. The wounds from the dagger and the arrows were still fresh and angry looking. Spike rolled his shoulders and nodded to the guards. “Be careful with that thing, Charlie boy.”

Gunn raised an eyebrow at Angel. “You’re serious about this?”

Angel nodded.

Spike muttered, “It’s not going to work.”

The guards each took hold of one of Spike’s arms. Fred opened the Lucite box and Gunn picked up the dagger. He weighed it in his hand, looking extremely unsure.

“C’mon. Taking longer isn’t gonna make it easier. Let’s go.”

Gunn’s brow crinkled. He cocked his arm back and struck down into Spike’s chest, right over the heart. The room was silent enough that the “shuck” noise of parting flesh was clearly heard, as well as Spike’s deeply held breath escaping in a groan.

Gunn stood a moment, transfixed by the image before him, the dagger handle sticking out of Spike, the blood seeping sluggishly out of the wound. He’d gotten the knife in deeper than the cultist had.

Spike jerked his arms forward, but the guards held strong. His chest rose around the knife-blade. “Are you waiting for a sign? It didn’t work. Get this bleeding thing out of me.”

Gunn made no motion. Wesley came around and jerked the dagger out with one savage motion. He dropped it, still bloody, back in its box. Fred hastily sealed the lid as though afraid it might try to escape.

“Well, that’s done,” Wesley said. “We believe you, Spike. You want your soul back. I’ll track down any writings about the soul-drinker, how it was forged, what its orginal purpose was. There may be a clue in there as to freeing the soul from the dagger. Fred will continue scientific analysis.”

Spike balled his t-shirt up and pressed it to his fresh wound. “You didn’t think it would work, either! You were just testing me, see if I was serious.”

“Yes.”

“I told you; I tried it already.”

“Yes, and we could take your word,” Wes responded dryly.

Gunn shook his head and shouldered his way past the guards. Spike followed him, surprised when they let him.

“Charlie. Wait half a tic.”

Gunn turned on his heel, hands up, “I don’t have time for you. I don’t know you, man.”

Spike’s face crumpled with hurt. “I chose you, to do it, because I trust you, mate. Trusted you to stab me.”

“Don’t do me any more favors,” Gunn said, and hurried down the corridor, occasionally looking back as though afraid Spike would follow.

Spike let his hands fall to his sides, stopping in the middle of the corridor. The guards soon were next to him, keeping him blocked in. He sighed and let them lead him back into the lab, where Fred was talking, somewhat excitedly, about "The containment properties of the Orb of Thessula, which I was able to finally quantify when we got the mass-ethometer..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the conclusion! Voila!

“Is today the day we pretend to be under siege and no one told me?” Lorne peeked in Gunn’s office.

Gunn jerked up from a slouch and his hands moved, trying to find a place to hide the toy robot he’d been fiddling with, until he saw it was just Lorne and he sighed and set the tin robot on the desk. “What’s up, Lorne?”

“You tell me. Security is buzzing, everyone is in their office with their door closed, and I doubt Angelcakes is going to cross the lobby singing any time soon.” Lorne sat on the edge of Gunn’s desk, looking at him expectantly.

Gunn flicked the little beanie on the top of his toy robot. He was thinking how all his childhood he’d wanted one just like this; it had stood in a special case at the back of the antiques and junk shop on the end of his block. He used to stand and stare at the tin toys and imagine that if he was a rich kid, he’d have all of them. Now he was thinking how utterly empty it felt, owning this toy he didn’t really feel he’d earned.

In a hollow voice, he said, “Spike lost his soul.”

Lorne raised his eyebrows. “The poor muffin!”

Gunn blinked. “That’s not the reaction I was expecting.”

“It makes sense now.” Lorne got up and paced to the door and back again. “His aura was grey, grey, grey when I passed him, and anyone who has heard Spike’s rendition of ‘My Way’ knows that’s not right. Poor lemon cake thinks he hasn’t a friend left in the world. What a loss it must have been to him!”

“He has no soul,” Gunn said. He stood. “The Spike we knew is gone, he’s not ‘poor’, he’s a monster. A killer. A…”

“Demon?” Lorne stopped his pacing and looked directly at Gunn, chin raised.

“Shit.” Gunn covered his eyes with one hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…”

“Some of my very best friends have no soul,” Lorne said, expression softening. “And I don’t mean that as some heavy-handed cliché. There is a real difference a soul makes. One visit from Angel’s less charming half is enough to cement that… oh, crumbcake, you’re hurting too, aren’t you?”

Gunn quickly shook his head, face crumpled into a complete denial.

“Honey, I don’t need you to sing to use my mystical power of 'eyesight' and see you’re upset about something. Tell Uncle Lorne all about it. I hate being this far out of the loop and you know I won’t stop pestering until you give.” When Gunn continued to make denial motions, Lorne crossed his arms and said, “I work with celebrities, don’t forget. I won’t be out-stubborned.”

Gunn shrugged. “I like Spike. Liked. I mean, he seemed like a good guy, not too hung up on things.”

“And now you’re not sure how to react to him?”

“And I left him!”

Both men were astounded by the force of his statement. Gunn sank back into his chair. “I left him,” he repeated. “I never leave anyone behind.”

“Pumpkin, you had no way of knowing…”

“No, that isn’t it. If I had known... either way, I should have stayed. To help him, or to take him down. I ran because I was scared.”

“We’re all allowed to be afraid.”

“Are we? I’ve staked friends. I’ve staked... family.” He spoke the last word softly, like it was hard to speak. He looked out the window. “When did I get so weak?”

“Hey. Charles Gunn may be many things, but he is not weak.”

Gunn continued to look out the window while Lorne came around to sit beside him in silent companionship. At last Gunn sighed. “Spike says he wants his soul back. Do you believe him?”

“Yes,” Lorne said, without hesitation. At Gunn’s questioning look, he held up a hand. “I may be wrong about people once in a while, but it’s rare. I know him well enough. And I know you even better. Whatever you did, it was the only thing you could do at the time.”

Not for the first time, Gunn wondered how someone with red eyes could look so kind. “I wish I had your faith in me, man.”

“Do you think anyone had faith in me? The poor excuse for a warrior with no taste for blood and a penchant for ‘sounds that have no purpose’?” Lorne made little air quotes and a disgusted face. “Charles, the past is exactly where it should be – the past. Stop worrying about what you did or didn’t do, and think about what you’re going to do.”

Gunn felt the reassuring weight of Lorne’s hand on his shoulder and sighed. “I’m not sure what I want to do.”

“Think of the man you wish you were – your very best self – and do what he’d do.”

“Move to another dimension and open a nightclub?”

Lorne’s comforting hand slipped off his shoulder to slap his arm playfully. “Taken, champ. Come on, what would Super Lawyer Gunn do?”

“I’m not ‘Super Lawyer Gunn’,” Gunn said, though he smiled, because it sounded like a weird sort of action figure. “They just stuffed some knowledge in my head.” Unbidden, his eyes went to the toy robot on his desk. He felt as artificial and hollow.

“Pish posh!” Lorne shot up, looming over him and looking quite demonic with the light from the window behind him and his eyes lightly glowing – which made the “pish posh” line all the more incongruous. Lorne shook a finger at Gunn. “Does my Rolodex tell me who to call when? Does knowing all the player’s stats tell you who to bet on?”

“Lorne…”

“They stuffed your head with facts, sugarpuff. But you decide how to use them. You apply the knowledge. You choose how to act on it. You lend it context.” He crouched, to meet the sitting Gunn’s eyes. “It’s all you, Charles. And we all have faith in you.” He smiled sadly. “All of us but you.”

“Okay. I’m a lawyer. I’ll do what lawyers do.”

“And what is that, anyway?” Lorne sat back, smiling. “Because I’ve been working here a couple months now and I’ve got no clue.”

Gunn stood up. Lorne rose with him. Gunn looked at his toy robot again, and then at the orderly array of file-folders next to it. “Look up precedents,” he said.

“That’s what lawyers do?”

Gunn nodded, and picked up his folders, straightening them into a stack.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have something to do,” Gunn said, and strode purposefully out of the office.

Lorne sighed. “And I still have no idea what they do.”

***

“But _knowing_ what regaining your soul would entail, doesn’t it conflict with your basic selfish nature to seek it?”

Spike sighed heavily. “For fuck’s sake, Percy, give it a rest.”

“We aren’t going to get an opportunity like this again.”

“To what? Annoy the hell out of a man who just lost his sense of fair play?” Spike scowled significantly, turning to square off against Wesley.

Spike had been trying to lose the watcher, but the security guards stepping into every exit way to cut him off had made escape impossible.

“Would it kill you to answer a few simple questions?”

“Yes.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“No, you’re unreasonable.” Spike gestured at the nearest guard. “Why can’t I just go find the bloody cultists and bring ‘em back for questioning? We’re wasting time.”

“The soul isn’t going anywhere.”

“Do you know that?” Spike raised both eyebrows. “Oh, right – you would if you quit bothering me and did the bloody research!”

Wesley folded his arm and raised one eyebrow. “I’m just asking you how you feel. Some people might consider that friendly.”

“How I feel?” Spike sneered and strode down the corridor, pushing past guards and lolly-gagging workers. “How do I feel? That’s a riot. Feel like I’m walking on eggshells. Feel like my head’s one big bruise and I can’t stop poking it to see where it hurts worst.” He spun on his heel, just long enough to point at Wes and arrest his following. “You. Watchers. You think evil is smart, don’t you? Bollocks. ‘Basic selfish nature’ you say, like I’m so thick I’d put momentary pleasure above all the rest of my life I have to live in. That’s what evil is, mate. Write that in your book: evil ignores all but immediate gratification of self.” Spike mimed writing in a little notebook and crumbling it up and tossing it back at Wesley as he led the way down the stairs to the main level. “Evil is stupid, and doesn’t even know it. I don’t _know_ what I don’t know. Can’t even feel it, like a hole or something, an edge. It’s not there. So I have to second guess every bloody step. Is this what I would do with the soul? I don’t know.” He raised a hand to knock back a lawyer who had bumped him, made a fist and a sour face, and said, “Excuse me.” He shot a glare at Wes as though to say, “See what I have to do?”

Spike crossed the reception area outside of Angel’s office, scanning for Harmony. There was one person here, at least, who wouldn’t judge him for his current condition. He huffed with annoyance, not finding her at her desk, and that’s when he heard the whir.

Wes had one hand in his jacket pocket, and from that pocket came the distinctive whir of a magnetic tape recorder.

Spike opened his mouth, a look of disgust on his face, but Wes cut him off with, “Is it morally acceptable to kill a human being in self-defense?”

Startled, Spike closed his mouth. “Uh, no?”

“What about in the defense of another person?”

“That one’s a trick. I’m thinking… no?”

“More than one person?”

“Hold on. I mean, if there’s a way of saving them without killing, but if there isn’t…”

“What about defending a non-human?”

Spike squinted a bit, started to ask for clarification, and then suddenly realized he didn’t have to answer. He jerked Wesley’s hand out of his pocket and, with more force than necessary, punched the “stop” button on the mini-recorder.

To Wesley’s credit, he didn’t make a sound, though Spike could feel his wrist bones shifting under the pressure of his grip. Then he remembered that was probably bad and pushed the watcher away. “My conscience isn’t your fucking science project!”

Having nowhere else closer to flee to, Spike barged into Angel’s office.

Angel looked up from his desk. He tilted his head to look past Spike. “Wes. Any news?”

“Get him off of me,” Spike demanded, stomping up to the desk. “Was he like this when you lost it? ‘Please, Angelus, tell me how you’re feeling?’ I don’t bloody think so.”

Wesley cleared his throat. “We did find something. It looks like the dagger holds only one soul at a time, so it’s possible if another soul entered it, the occupant soul would be freed to the ether.”

Spike’s anger melted into a confused frown. “This is another of those moral questions, isn’t it?”

“Well, obviously, we can’t take someone else’s soul away from them just to free yours, and even then, we aren’t sure if it would be freed, or just destroyed. And if freed…”

“Well you’re not bloody well doing _that_!” Spike jumped back, to the side of the desk. He waved Angel toward Wes.

Angel sighed. “Spike, can you just go somewhere and be still and quiet until we figure this out?”

“Percy is doing nothing!”

“I assure you, the entire Mystical Services staff is investigating soul manipulation spells,” Wes said, unfazed. He clasped his hands in front of him, the tape-recorder whirring again. “I’m merely taking advantage of this unique opportunity to quantify the differences. There are psychological and theological questions…”

“Wes,” Angel held up a hand. “You really don’t want to quantify a soul. You can’t.”

“Yeah, you tell him, grandpa.”

“Damn it, Spike.” Angel stood, exasperated. He turned to Spike, and whatever he was about to say was lost as he stared, as though trying to see something behind Spike’s eyes.

“Subject A exhibits a desire to understand Subject S,” Wes said, as quietly as he could.

Two vampiric visages turned on him. Angel shook the fangs away first. “Wes? Not now, and not this, okay?”

Wesley’s expression clearly showed that he thought they were both being absolute girls about this, but he said, “I’m sorry. I’m being insensitive.” And turned off his tape recorder.

Spike’s features melted into a smirk. He perched on a corner of the desk and picked up Angel’s name-plate. “So, Peaches, how’d that examination of the coroner’s reports go?”

Angel snatched the wooden name-plate from Spike’s hands. “Inconclusive,” he said. “Wes, get him out of here.”

“I’m not some puppy piddling on the carpet!” Spike jumped up and glared at Wesley, intending to stop his advance, which he didn’t. “Why are you all trying so hard to annoy the evil, soulless demon?”

“Returning the favor?” Wesley offered.

Angel looked pained. “Guys, can we just get through…”

All three men jumped a little when the doors to the office burst open.

Gunn strode in, a file folder held up like a banner. “There’s a precedent,” he said.

He looked from confused face to confused face and realized he may as well have spoken Klingon. He sighed, and gave the file-folder a little shake. “Kovacic vs. Vail, 1893. A soul was wrongfully removed from a Brakken demon during a summoning ritual. The demon sued for its return and the judge found the ritual negligent. The firm agreed to return the demon’s soul on behalf of its client, in exchange for a severely reduced fine and dropping inter-dimensional law charges.”

Gunn smiled, seeing that he had everyone’s attention. He dropped the file on Angel’s desk. “What this means, gentlemen, is we have recorded here an exact transcript of how they did it. The process had to be thoroughly documented for the court.”

Wesley was the first to move. He flipped open the folder and scanned the contents intently.

Spike looked as though afraid the paper would combust. “That’s it? You – it’s all in there?”

“There’s a ritual,” Wesley said, flipping paper. “Yes. We should be able to do this. The text is transcripted. It looks Assyrian. I should be able to find the original ceremony.”

Spike gaped. He stepped forward and clapped Gunn on the shoulder. “You saved my soul with… lawyering!”

“Hey man, let’s not phrase it like that?” Gunn raised his hands defensively. “Anyway, Wes still has to do his thing.”

“Extraordinary work,” Wes said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the file. “I might never have found the ritual in question without this.”

“Good. Great.” Angel clapped his hands. “Go do it, Wes. Good work, Gunn. Spike, get out of my office.”

Wes nodded, not looking up, and wandered to the exit. Spike bristled. “You can’t just…”

Gunn put his hand on Spike’s arm. “Come on, let’s leave the boss man to his work.”

Spike looked like he was going to fight it, but then he just shrugged. “All right. Enjoy the soul-crushing office work, Peaches.” He flashed a smile. “Since I’ve got neither, I’m off to get pissed.”

Spike turned from his mocking wave good-bye to see Gunn looking at him very intently. “What?”

Gunn shook his head. “You really aren’t all that different without the soul.”

“Tell that to Percy, would you?” There was a moment of awkward silence. Spike grimaced and shrugged, silently dismissing all potentially “poufy” conversation topics. “Come on, Charlie. Drinks on me.” He started toward the stairs.

“Woah,” said Gunn. “I don’t think getting drunk right now is a good idea.”

Spike turned at the top of the stairs. “Now when is getting drunk ever not a good idea?”

Gunn held his ground. “When you have no sense of right and wrong.”

“You still don’t trust me?”

“It’s not about trust. It’s about minimizing risk.”

Spike scoffed. “I have just as much self control without the soul.”

“That’s the problem.”

A beat passed, and then Gunn smiled. Spike rolled his eyes. “Fine then. Join me for one glass of what passes for beer around here?”

Gunn nodded. “That I can do.”

As they walked out together, Spike kept looking at Gunn, who had a closed-off expression.

“Did it make you feel better?” Spike asked.

“What?”

“Using the powers of lawyering for good?”

They were at the street doors. Two guards regarded them nervously, shifting their weapons. Gunn turned his back on them. “Dude, you aren’t exactly ‘good’.”

“But you do feel better.”

Gunn stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down briefly. “Yeah.” He looked up. “I feel better because I lived up to my own standards. Soul or not, you’re my friend, and I left you behind. I had to fix that.”

“You felt guilty? Leaving the soulless demon?”

Gunn shrugged and nodded.

Spike laughed. “Souls suck.”

“You’re the one who wants his back.”

It was Spike’s turn to shrug. “Who wants to be willfully ignorant? Besides Captain Forehead, I mean.” He stepped directly in front of the guards at the door. “Oi, Rent-a-cops. If you’re so concerned about protecting the kitties and puppies from yours truly, you can follow us to the bar. Otherwise, I’m gonna stand here and annoy you, constantly, until you give in anyway.”

The guards looked at each other.

Gunn smiled. “Let me handle this?” He stepped forward and talked to the guards, who radioed their supervisor and arranged the trip to the bar. Spike paced and complained of boredom, but soon they were out in the cool night air and everyone’s spirits were up, even the guards.

Soon they were comfortably settled in a booth at the Cat and Fiddle, beers ordered – despite Spike’s perfunctory complaints the bar had a wide array of micro-brews and imports, and Spike appeared to know a great deal about California’s beers. They had a brief discussion about the merits of hopps vs. malts, and the possible wanker-ness of the guards watching them from various points around the room.

Then Spike leaned back, gave Gunn a significant look, and asked, “So what was it, mate?”

“What was what?”

“Why did you run? Why are you still having trouble looking at me?”

Gunn nodded. He took a long sip of his beer for fortification. “My sister, Alonna. She was turned.”

“And you staked her?”

Gunn looked down at his hands. It felt strange, talking about this. Somehow, Alonna’s death felt too big to be summed up with “you staked her.” After a long pause, he said, “Yeah.”

“I killed my mum. Funny story…” Spike trailed off at Gunn’s annoyed look. He sighed. “Yeah, no one ever wants to hear that story. You think it was easier living it? Anyway, you know it was the right thing to do, Charlie. If you’d met me, oh around 1900, you should have staked me, then.”

“Should I have? You saved the world. The world. Saved. I mean, how many guys can you actually say that about?”

Spike looked uncomfortable. “Can’t know what fate’s going to hand you. ‘S a crap-shoot at best.”

“I know.” Gunn returned to looking at his hands, around his glass, not wanting to see the face next to him anymore. “I just have to wonder – could Alonna have been saved? Could she be here, now? Be a part of our team.”

“There’s a reason the watchers keep banging on about a vampire being completely different from the person they were. Any doubt on that and they’d quickly go out of their nebbish little minds.”

“Dude, don’t make this a joke.”

Spike put his hand on Gunn’s shoulder. Gunn looked down at it, momentarily unsure if he wanted the contact, but he didn’t push the hand off. Spike flexed his fingers. “It sucks. Like dying – and you can take my word on that one. But you did the only thing you could, right? Forgive yourself and let the past go fuck itself. Otherwise you end up like Angel, and trust me, that forehead of yours is way too pretty for brooding.”

Gunn snorted. “You’re so full of it.”

Spike smiled and shrugged like it was a compliment.

They drank together, in silence, Spike’s hand still on Gunn’s shoulder, until his pocket buzzed. Gunn fished out his cell phone and read the text message on his screen. “It’s Wes. They’ve got the ritual set up.”

Spike pulled back. “Oh.” He downed the last of his beer in one long gulp. “Well, let’s get this show on the road.” He slipped out of the booth and waved the guards over like they were a carpool.

Gunn caught the tight expression on his face as they stepped out of the bar. “You’re nervous!”

“Bugger off.”

“No! You look like the groom at an ugly chick’s wedding.”

“So glad you’re here for this, Charlie,” Spike said. It was meant sarcastically, but didn’t come out that way.

“Me too,” Gunn said, and put his arm around his friend’s shoulders.

THE END


End file.
